Pride and Patience
by Wespe
Summary: The Irken Armada has conquered Earth, and a peace has been brokered. But now Dib finds himself in a precarious situation, torn between his family, his country, and his duty, he must find a way to stay alive in the ruthless Irken Military .
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone. Just did a revised edition of the story. Though it needed it. But anyway, this is the newest story by me. Future chapters may be co-authored. If so, I will update you on that. I don't say it in the story, but this is Dib POV. Sorry if there's any confusion. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.**

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><p>Gray, that's all there is; stark, barren, lifeless sky. A cold mass of indistinct misery hangs in the air, like spring fog in the early morning; heavily pressing down on a person, making it hard to breathe beneath my usually stiff collar. Hushed voices whisper in the corners amidst the sorrowful weeping of the women huddled in the crowd behind us on this early summer morning. The men have come as well, and so have the children, and the small infants the parents bear in their arms. Sad faces, the lot of them. No one smiles to see this. Not happy, for sure, but it will be a day they and the history books will long remember. And they can tell their grand-children, and those great-grandchildren of theirs not yet born, that they were here on that day of mourning, that day of grief, that day of humiliation, that day when the freedom so cherished amongst all peoples of every nation, creed, and vestige, finally expired amidst the foul tempest of time and the brutal stomp of the tyrant's heel. Our spirits poor, decrepit, and broken-this is what it is like to be defeated.<p>

I stand here, now ready to witness it as well. I am dressed in a uniform that I have only worn for the past three weeks, but one which is untainted and unspoiled, still as new when I got it. The cloth colour, as vibrant as the day I had pulled it from the plastic sheath it had come folded in. Any other day or hour, I would have been proud to have worn this; but how much does a uniform mean to a defeated soldier? What honor can he derive from wearing the insignia of a regiment that has been completely wiped out? Does the man next to me possess that right? Do any of them possess that right? Do I? Inadequacy flushes my senses as I prop my new steel helmet upon my head, and pull on my uniform shirt-tail. The rough wool rubs harshly against my sweat-laden palms as I trail the neatly sewed seam along the edge. I give it a firm tug and snap my shirt into place, making it crease along chest; my two ribbons on the left bob slightly but fall back into place upon my breast. I never can get them quite straight enough...

A cold wind blows slightly to the east. It swirls some small pine cone leaves over the patio floor. I follow their little dance as they pass over the perfectly polished shoes of the man to my left. There stands the general. His face is expressionless, a listless complexion of what he once was, his cheeks hallow and colorless to his mild countenance, his eyes constrained and faded from many long and weary nights of leaning over his wide oak table; looking over the countless maps and charts in his dimly lit office these past few weeks. The creases on his face are noticeably larger than when I had previously seen him. He is not the man I had first met, but he is a seasoned veteran, that's for sure. He is old, perhaps too old for much more soldiering. We all called him "Old Dog"…He is still here, though. A vestal remnant of the once-glorious time not so long ago when he was a much smaller piece in an army that was undefeated and feared the world over. Now the legacy is gone, and it has ended with him. He has to be the one to bear his name as the one who brought us defeat. But the men still love him, and he loves them back.

He was a father to each of them in battle. He knew exactly the strengths and weaknesses of his own troops, and understood what each soldier needed. He placed such great confidence in them. He knew they could accomplish anything, but he did not ask any more of them than he would ask of himself. He was a brother in desperation. He never let his men go hungry, never sacrificed them needlessly. He was expedient and frank, and did his best to keep morale high. But most importantly, he was a friend in times of burden. Not afraid to get down with the men in trenches and dig himself. He toiled along with them. Every misery, every toil, every mind-numbing minute of battle, he was right there with them. And the men loved him for it. So it must be a great pain that he bears in his chest right now, weighing deeply on his mind as he seemingly recalls all those bright faces that once stood before him, but he'll never show it. He looks down at his boots, his firm brow roiled as if in deep contemplation, but deep down in his bosom, I know he weeps. Not for himself or his own shortcomings, but for the men who he had staked his soul and body behind, and those widows who lament the tragic turn of events in this misfortune of war, the likes of which has never been seen. He does not show that which troubles him, but from the corner of his wrinkled eye, I see one solitary tear roll down his scarred and battered cheek and land forlorn on the concrete below.

If ever there was a greater compromise of relations to the humility and forbearance of that benevolent general who stands to my left, it is the lieutenant who stands to my right. A stalwart man, rigidly defined and textured, he towers over everyone in a sort of comely way. He has round cheeks and a hard nose and eyes of vibrant blue hidden underneath the shadow of his officer's cap. He stands straight and alert, his chest swollen out and his arms by his side. Feet together, eyes forward, at attention. He is proud; even in defeat. He has to be. He is the only one left. Surviving alone grants a dignity all its own, I suppose, or maybe he is just too stupid to realize his own good fortune. It is a mockery for him to stand in such a dignified pose at such undignified an hour. The man is a derision to his comrades. Not even a man, I should say, but a lifeless machine, yes, that fits him better. He doesn't think. There's no sign of understanding in those eyes of his, just obedience. He obeys, that's all; blindly following orders. How much I wish to yell at him to stop the charade, the damn simplistic game he thinks he's in, but I won't. It simply isn't my place, and on a day like this, there's enough to worry about besides him. No matter how much of an ass he is making of himself.

I haven't the right to, after all; no matter how much of a pompous buffoon he is. He had seen combat. I had never left the confines of the general's office. Who was I to say how he should act? Maybe it was his way of acting brave. I was just an orderly; no more. That is the only reason I am here. Out of the thousands of others, I was chosen for desk work. Maybe it was random, maybe it wasn't. Maybe they looked in the file on me they no doubt had stored in some top secret bunker deep underground and saw my credentials and assigned me here. Whatever the case may be, I am here. To my fortune or misfortune, that was not for me to decide. As I ponder over the vast expenditure of all these things I think to myself that perhaps, dying gloriously in battle would have been preferable to this. In one brief instant of time, we had seen everything we had known before crumble into dust before our very eyes. Now all that was left were the ashes kicked into our mouths by our enemies. We'd have to beg in the gutter, groveling like beggars for mercy from the invaders. It was a day nobody wanted to see. Was it all worth living through?

Some had decided that it wasn't. On our way here, we stopped at one of the last outposts along the front that was still managing to hold out against the enemy's ceaseless onslaught. He welcomed us, gave us food, told us a great lie of how they were resisting the enemy with all possible gallantry and that they wouldn't take another step back, but then we told the commander of the garrison our orders to surrender. He changed; almost instantly if I remember right. He started shaking and trembling, enough that we thought he was ill. We helped him find control, but the life seemed to vanish from his very eyes. After his short fit, however, he summoned all the other officers and gave them a speech on what had happened. He preached to them about duty to their leader and their responsibility to the homeland. When he had concluded, he invited us and his officers to retire with him and we started drinking one of the last bottles of brandy; giving toasts and hurrahs as each man drank to his courage. Then he and his officers retired into the other room, and each man, instead of facing the shame of surrender, chose to end his life with a bullet through his head, and died to a man. We rushed in, only to see the brutal carnage. It was horrifying to see their cold bodies lying there, bent down in a cold stupor with their life force all over the walls; their eyes wide open, as if staring at us. I feel nauseous just recalling it, needless to say, I lost my stomach a little bit later. We hadn't the time to give them rights, and God knows they deserved them as much any person. So we did what we could, placing some napkins we had found over their heads and going on our way, visibly reminded how much the burden of duty meant to each of us.

That was three days ago, and I still see their blank, morose stares every time I shut my eyes; those cold, lusterless pupils glaring wide open. The general told us they did their duty as they saw fit; but isn't our duty to live? Doesn't each of us have a responsibility to stay alive, even while in captivity? Though, I confess, I could not imagine what drove those valiant men to seek death rather than life. What kind of noble obligation they felt so strongly for that ending their lives was the only alternative. Were they brave to have done what they did? Or, was it just a coward's way out? Should we feel ashamed for not following their lead? I feel a deep sorrow over the whole affair. Not because of the men, but because the families left behind. Mothers and fathers are now without sons, sisters without brothers, lovers without sweethearts. And then I think on my own family. My sister and my father at home, bidding me a tearful farewell just three weeks earlier as the drums of war beat in the distance. My sister, more than any, who I had never seen once shed a tear, wept bitterly to see me go. It was all a bit much at the time and I edged away after giving her an embrace. I left them alone to go and fight the foe, thinking myself proud for what I did. Now? I feel nothing; a numbness. And if I had the chance to go back at this very moment, I wouldn't withdraw from her embrace, not for anything; not for the world.

In the present, time seems to creep languidly on. Neither the beasts of the surrounding forest nor the fowl of the air seemed to make any noise. The bitter hush and silence of this barren location in the middle of nowhere is unnerving. Why does it have to be here? Why in the middle of the remotest part of the world? It doesn't seem to fit the expectations of a conquering army, to have the surrender signed in a place of no significance. The only people gathered to witness it are the few people who live in the village, who were informed at the last minute that their Siberian town would be the place where Earth finally submitted to a foreign ruler. It was all too much. I anticipate their arrival, but I hate every minute before they show up. As much hate as any man who has to surrender his home must hold within. Damn them all. The one courtesy they could pay us was to be punctual.

We wait patiently. Now, the lieutenant has started to flex his legs as we wait for them to arrive. The fog around us gradually begins to lift as the minutes tick away, until the sun, just beyond the horizon of tall fir trees, dissipates it entirely. The cool breeze of the morning turns into a hot, sweltering humidity. Hot, steam-like air radiates against our faces as the sunlight illuminates the darkness. The crowd begins to become anxious, their near-silence replaced with an assortment of low, anxious talking. We aren't sure what's going on. Is it a delay? Nobody can tell. They didn't say how they would reach us here. The anxiety of it all is maddening, like waiting for an ax to come down. My annoyance turns into rage. Why don't they hurry up!

After another 10 minutes of bated suspension, we finally hear an approaching vehicle, a lone muffled crackle barely piquing the ears. It is the distinct sound of an engine that can be heard, piercing the broken silence like a knife, loudly cluttering as it approaches. It continues on, coming ever closer, until several others join suit. They are farther off, but they join in the chorus of gyrating turbines pumping on steel and oil. Soon the first one appears. A greenish-gray motorcycle rounds the corner of the mud-laden main street of the town and sputters onto the central square in front of the mayor's mansion where our present host has assembled. The rider bobs viciously as the bike awkwardly ascends the low spots along the road. The loud engine kicks and writhes as the driver puts on the brakes, causing it to come to a complete stop. He kicks down the lever and dismounts his vehicle, leaving it to idle like an exhausted steed.

He is a strange creature, the first of their kind I have ever seen. His face and body are partially obscured by his goggles and the flowing trench coat he wears, but you can tell without a doubt that he is not of this earth, to the amazement and intrigue of all the villagers present who have never seen a foreigner, much less an extraterrestrial. The aberrant creature removes his goggles and helmet nonchalantly, his manner cool and collected, revealing his peculiar appearance. He has bright green skin, his face square in dimension with no visible nose or ears upon it. Instead, he has two wide, red eyes that cover most of his face and two indiscreet antennas on the top of his head that seem to act the part of both of those aforementioned human appendages.

He walks to us; his stride and pacing professional if not somewhat relaxed. He doesn't grin, merely nods to acknowledge the general's presence as he approaches him. He halts in front of him and shakes his hand. "An honor." He murmurs. An honor indeed, no doubt he'll be promoted for being here on this glorious occasion. "The convoy will be arriving shortly." The old general nods his weary head and gives the soldier a faint salute, half-heartedly raising his hand to his eyebrow. The soldier snaps a salute back, then does an about-face and proceeds back to his commandeered vehicle where he stands at attention. I gaze through my peripherals at the lieutenant, who is still standing at his post like a constipated statue.

"One and the same..." I mutter.

Soon, the rest of the entourage arrives. Two beige, rather-antiquated cars round the same corner the scout had come from. They are long, open-air cars that seat about four people each, including the drivers of each car. Inside of these cars are the assembled leaders and important figures of their top military. A truck follows close behind, no doubt filled with soldiers. I peer around the wide vehicle to see if any more would be coming. No more are to be seen. This can't be all, can it? Surely, they were going to bring more men. I scoff. Perhaps they don't care if any of them live or die.

The cars pull in in front of the mayor's mansion while the truck pulls around to the side. The enemy generals and field marshals exit their vehicles, gathering in a casual group in front of the promenade. I look to the far side of the building, where the truck has come to a stop. The back is let down and squads of fully armed soldiers jump quickly to the street below, forming into filed rank beside of the building. The group of generals approaches and we perform as we had we had been told, snapping our heels together and saluting our victors who stand before us. The general addresses them, "Sirs, I have been instructed by my superiors to relinquish my entire army to you, speaking on behalf of the will of my country and my planet, both of whom at this time wish to conduct a peace with yours." Several of the generals look at each other, perplexed. They whisper amongst themselves, until the one in front finally decides to step in for the rest.

"As you wish, Sir. We will discuss terms, then." He says in a low voice. "As the vanquished, you are given approximately one earth day to fulfill this pledge of surrender. Do you agree?"

"I do." He says, letting the words choke in his throat.

"Then let us proceed." He motions his baton to the mansion behind us. He nods and we about-face and walk to the entrance. A rare event, as any other time we would have marched.

The crowd disperses in front of us. The villagers move to one side or the other, creating a corridor by which to get through. We walk into the doorway, our guests following us. We lead them to a large room where the papers have all been neatly arranged and we stand at our seats. The victors look around at the room, gazing at the murals and portraits neatly hung on the wall behind each chair, with candles attached nearby. It is a plain room, but it fits the time and occasion for which it is needed. It will suffice for the work ahead. When the guests have been seated, we then sit. What follows is an intense moment of awkwardness. We sit face to face with them, staring at our foes, and nobody is quite sure how to begin. I sit in my seat, nervously fidgeting with my hands under the table.

Finally, the general tries to break the dead-lock. "Gentlemen, could I interest you in some brandy?"

The alien generals look at each other, unsure if they should respond. With not a word spoken between them, they break view with each other and all nod their heads approvingly. The general beckons a servant standing at the door, who then disappears into the other room and reappears holding a bottle encasing a velvety red liquid. The servant hands around the glasses and begins to pour. I eye the brandy bottle, looking it over; and then, I recognize it. It is the bottle we had retrieved from the dead officers.

Suddenly, the image of their dead bodies inspires a burning hatred to rise up in my chest as we continue to glare at those pompous commanders sitting on the far side of the table, drinking down the brandy that had passed the lips of those brave men. I want to hurt them. Not just hurt them, kill them. But not instantly, no, I want to make them suffer. It would be easy enough. We were not allowed to bring weapons to this meeting, but I did. I have a pistol, small enough to hide undetectably in my boot. I could gun each of them down and have one bullet to spare. It beckons me as my hand slowly reaches beneath the table. I pass my hand over my boot and feel its stamped steel frame along the inside of the leather. One, thin string-pull away, and I could unleash death upon them. But then I think about how much more pain and suffering I will put my people through. All the countless lives that would be lost in retribution. For what? For these replaceable geezers in their uniforms? It isn't worth it. At least, not yet. I let my anger subside as I slowly slide the gun back into the holster, discreetly out of view.

The aliens drink their fill, and when they are done, they are more liberated to begin the talks. "You have treated us to your fine spirits," the apparent leader says, "and we thank you. But now let us move on to what must be done."

"Very well." The general says. "Whenever you're ready." He has a great deal of determination in his voice. He may have been defeated, but he certainly isn't out of the fray. He conveys seriousness and certainty, as any commander would on a battlefield.

"You mentioned in your communication about prisoners..."

"Yes." He answers expediently. "I want all prisoners to be decently treated, as is specified under the Geneva Convention."

"We don't know of this 'Geneva', but we do have the Galactic Contract of Military Engagement, which specifies treatment of prisoners." He takes our said addendum and flips through the pages, putting his finger on the passage when he finds it, and begins quoting, "...all prisoners, regardless of rank or station, are to be given fair and equal provision and be provided decent quarter. If a civilian is caught wearing the uniform of a soldier and is taken prisoner, said civilian is granted no leniency for provision under the code..."

"I have no civilians in my army, Sir." The general interrupts.

"We are merely pointing out our law," A fat alien on the left responds, with many a wheezing cough.

"In such cases," the general responds, "we shall reach wherever it may be. For right now, the lives of my men are my concern. We will discuss civilian matters later.

The aliens are taken aback his abrasiveness. I smile at their faces, which look as if somebody told them that something had urinated in the brandy. "I will be frank with you," the leader says, "since you appear in no mood for diplomacy. It was never our goal to come here to your planet to conquer. It was necessity, however, that drove us here. Since none of you are united, we had to find a way to seek your assistance collectively by another route."

The lieutenant, now perplexed, speaks up, "Assistance?"

"Yes, assistance. We will leave you here, undisturbed, governed by your own leaders, to live in peace, if you provide us with what we want."

"What do you want?" the general says.

"We want troops."

The general responds in the gravest of tones. "You came all this way, expended all these resources, killed all these people, and you wish us to pay tribute with our own troops?"

"Yes. In return, you may have all those things, as well as access to Irken technology."

The general eyes him with a great deal of suspicion. "Why?"

The leader responds candidly, "We need friends. Not just friends, allies."

"You mean vassals." he says.

The smile vanishes from the alien's face. "In more or less of a way...yes." We all stare at him coldly. He sees the impact of his words and huddles his arms down, as if trying to reassure us, "Look, these are the most lenient terms I can offer. Anything less would be treason..."

A minute passes by and the general sits with his head stooped low, pondering the terms. At last, he answers. "I will have to consult with my superiors."

"No!" he chastises, "We want your response now." He slides him a piece of paper. "Sign it, or we'll lay waste to the rest of the planet."

The old general looks over the paper, reading each line carefully, his pupils shaking lightly as they pass over the small print. When he finishes, he bows his heavy head and shakes it several times. He grudgingly takes the pen in his hand and puts his name down on the paper. "It's done." he says.

The lieutenant and I both stand up to place our signatures as witnesses. He takes the pen and quickly jots his name down under the general's. He places the pen in my hand, and I hesitantly start to sign, my hands shaking with rage at the degradation. I neatly swirl the letters out, and hand the paper to the servant, who hands it to the aliens. They each sign it themselves, and then stamp it with a red seal. It is final. We are now slaves...


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay everyone, a new installment. Enjoy. Sorry for taking so long to update. This is co-authored by "TwoCute". She deserves all credit for this one.**

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><p>The paper shakes in my hand as the ship rattles with a mighty groan. A deep, thundering boom erupts through the hull, causing the sturdy metal frame to vibrate slightly. The overhead light flickers, its electric buzz silenced for a few brief seconds before reemerging to light the dim room once more. After a moment, the vibrations cease and the ship resumes its normal composure as it silently travels through the perilous depths of space. I attempt to continue my repeatedly interrupted task. I look down to my blank sheet to see a large graphite line streaked down the side. I curse as I twirl the pencil around and begin to erase the accidental marking. It is the third time this had happened now. Can't they keep the damn ship steady? Those asteroids sure do play well with the navigators. I feel sorry for those poor bastards.<p>

I blow the rubber eraser fragments off the page. They gently float away in the dust and I resume looking at my stationary, its neatly written header the only script glaring from the crisp white paper. I grunt in frustration as I prop my lanky legs up on my narrow bunk, sighing, trying to think of _something_ to write. I have to write something, after all. This is the day when we arrive to start our basic training. This is the day, the day where we start our roles as Irken soldiers. A day worthy of being remembered, and yet, I have nothing to say; no deep sort of reflection on the meaning of life, or any allegory about death, or even a simple statement of anticipation. Nothing, absolutely nothing. To be fair, though, it is hard to think about anything inside this hot room where there is no fresh air. I wave my hand, realizing just how hot I am. I take off my service shirt and wrap it around my bunk post, lying down on my coarse bed sheet, letting my sweaty chest breathe its freedom from the oppressive fabric as I repose on my simple bottom cot. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, hoping with slight optimism that maybe if I meditate a bit on the matter, it will help. I let my heart beat slower, making my breathing steady as I try to tune out all the white noise around me. The dull patter of distant foot-steps down the hall, the mindless chatter muffled near the door, the incessant elbowing of a neighboring bunk-mate; it all vanishes, but still, nothing. I still feel empty.

It is a most peculiar feeling. I have always stepped up to the occasion when I want to voice my opinion, and now the words are simply not to be found. Does the great and mighty Zim have nothing to write in his memoirs for future generations on this glorious day? I allow what little humility I have to mindlessly taunt me. I guess he doesn't. It is difficult to pin just what I think of anything after what has happened these past few weeks. All the excitement, the farewell parties, the celebrations, the parades. All of those things have seemed to whirl by in one vast pageant that has left my head spinning. The days just past were filled with formal picnics and toasting, while in the evenings we drank high chardonnay in our dress uniforms with the mayor and his associates at their evening balls. The hosts, rich bankers and businessmen, were all there, each donned in their finest suits, each toasting success and victory more formally than the one before. Each revolting ceremony was more repulsive and sappier than the last. The wine went down smooth, but the aftertaste was bitter and hallow.

What was the purpose of all these celebrations anyhow? Were they to make us 'feel better' about what we were doing, or was it just an obligation they felt they had to perform; as though it would make up for not enlisting? "Sure, we're not willing to fight, but if we give you a nice parade or two, it all balances out." Bah! It's sickening how low they are, those insufferable civilians; cowards, the lot of them. A bunch of parvenus dressed in their dapper dress clothes toasting to success, like it is just another business venture that may sink or float. How could they know what soldiering means? How could they possibly know anything!

I let my anger cool. Maybe some of them meant well. Maybe a lot of them mean well, but even if they do, what about that ragged and decrepit veteran who was lying in the gutter with an arm missing? Not good enough for him, apparently; the outcast. That's why I'm here, I suppose. Just couldn't take to becoming like those wretches. "Find a good job." They said, "Find a pretty girl, get married, make a nice home, raise lots of children. Help your country." What a load of sentimental crap. That kind of life is no life worth living. To hide in your home while your countrymen are risking their lives, their limbs, their very blood; just so you can sit at home in your nice chair and "continue the species"? No thank you, I would rather do something productive with my life. Be somewhere I can be accepted for what I do and earn merit on my skill, not on my connections or how much money I have in the bank. I brood on these things a little more as I find myself nodding off to sleep on my bed, enjoying the sounds of the recently impelled radio. The distinct sound of a Kera horn fills the air, its sweet, low notes floating melodiously as the sad and weary song echoes against the steel and rivets. Then the hypnotic, near-transient voice of a now-famous singer caresses the speakers.

_"A busy day, a long endeavour,  
><em>_Honey, honey, now or never  
><em>_Take my hand, we'll run our way home  
><em>_Never thinking of the miles to roam  
><em>_You by my side  
><em>_Just let it slide  
><em>_A busy day, it's now or never  
><em>_Let's make it last forever..."_

I feel a tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes to see a familiar, tall, and gangly figure. "Hey, Zim, me and the guys were gonna play cards. You want in?"

I squint my eyes, rubbing them, trying to adjust to the light. "Nah, maybe in a little bit, Tret."

"Alright." He walks off down the confined hall between the rows of beds suspended by chains to the wall. I stretch my arms as several others pass by, following after him. At the end of the passageway there is a small area with no bunks and just enough room to fit one table made from scrap metal that the mechanics couldn't use and seat a half a score of players, too. I get up, continuing to stretch my arms. I look down the corridor and see the group of soldiers all sitting around the table laughing to themselves and carrying on. I see Tret, sitting off to the far right with a dead serious expression on his face as he looks over the cards in his hand.

Tret is a nice guy. Modest, and a bit unassuming, but overall a nice guy. He can carry on a conversation if he needs to, make some witty statements, tell a joke or two. Everyone accepts him. That's just who he is; he is one of them. He is popular, too, but he is the only friend I have. Well...maybe not "friend". "Chum" might fit the description better. We know each other a little better than passing acquaintances, yet not quite as intimately as friends. Come to think of it, I don't think I have a single friend. Well, regardless of that fact, I still hold his opinion high and so does he mine, or at least I hope. Whenever we talk, I always start it by ranting angrily about something. He listens to my diatribe, nodding silently as I go on about vengeance and what-have-you. By the end of it, I usually forget what I started off on and he will just laugh and we will usually start talking about something totally unrelated as if nothing had happened. It is a weird way of initiating conversation, but he never complains. I like talking with him, about anything really, and I guess that's why I'll join him in a few minutes. Try to make him and I both happy, and maybe think of something to put in this damn journal. I hate playing cards, after all...

I get nudged by the soldier on the bunk across from mine. I get up to look at him, slightly annoyed at the fat crew member who is stationed here in the troop hold. "What?" I ask disinterestedly. The brute pushes me off my bunk, my body violently thuds on the cold metal. He laughs like a madman with sadistic pleasure, each chortle cackling against my writhing antennas. As the pain causes my ribs to ache, I let out a low grunt; I knew I should have ignored him. He picks up my pencil and paper which are laying close by. He holds them up to show the "regulars" on the other end of the hall. They cheer at him and his "prize trophy". He makes some clearly ignorant comments about what they are for, and some other insults at me for owning them. The sounds muffle through my still throbbing hearing appendages. I pull myself off the floor, some bitter, metallic-tasting blood dripping from my mouth. I watch the bulging mass of muscles continue to laugh. Even as great as I am, I still wish I was taller. I reel back my legs and jump for my things several times, teach time narrowly missing the mark by a few tantalizing centimeters. The degenerate lout just keeps howling, perfectly content to see me suffer. Wouldn't surprise me if he tortured animals when he was younger.

He towers over me after my fourth failed attempt to retrieve my belongings. "Look at him!" he jostles, "You're pathetic! I'm surprised they even let you take the entrance exam. A poor excuse for a soldier!"

My eye twitches with fury. "Zim is NOT pathetic! And I'll make a better soldier than you could ever dream of!" He continues guffawing, his cheeks flustered with the unbelievable contempt and mockery that is apparent upon every facet of his overweight face. He leans back, clutching his sides; I see my chance. I lunge for the pad and pencil, snatching them from his hands. The fool reels back, trying to regain balance so he can grab me; he misses by a long shot. I retreat into the bowels of the narrow docking hall, hiding in a dark corner. There is a great commotion of hollering and stomping, probably protesting against me spoiling their fun, but whatever. I have my stuff back. Now, at least, I have something to write about, biography be damned.

_The solders here are infuriating. They fail to see my superiority. Will anyone see Zim for his amazingness? No, I'm far too amazing. I don't understand why no one around here accompanies Zim, I would, but the Irkens here are fools. I DON'T NEED THEM! Zim is too good for them anyways! Apparently, we are heading to a training ground on foreign soil. The Irken army has again conquered another hopeless planet, the name of which escapes me. I have yet to see the new creatures, but I don't care about them. All Zim cares about is ME!...And the Irken armada, and all that junk. I must prove myself worthy to my higher ups! Destruction is nice, too. I suppose this is all I can say, I feel as though I have more input but I'm not sure how to add it, nonetheless I am amazing._

_Zim._

Pleased with my very first journal entry, I close the tiny book shut and place the items in my PAK. I sigh while being cramped in a tiny place around the corner from where all the other troops are seated down the hall. I calmly go up to my bedside, the brute conveniently gone now, and put on my service shirt again. I proceed down the hall to where the others are seated, playing their game. There are not chairs left to play their game, so I sit on the side of the bed. Tret notices me right away, "Hey, Zim, why don't you join in next round? Groot here needs a lesson or two on how to play cards." He snickers.

I hear Groot protest from across the table in his thick accent, "I has the skill, you just-a be-a cheating on me." The table goes into an uproar of happy taunting as the reproached Groot manages to let it slide. "Let's go! It's your bet."

I sit on the bed, and lean my head on my hand, meditating some more as I listen to their conversation. "So, I heard that we are going to one of these 'new' planets we've conquered, anyone know what it looks like?" The speaker tries to hide his anticipation, but I can still hear that upbeat tone of enthusiasm. Why should he care?

"No, I don't know what it looks like. But I heard one of the officers talking about how their technology level is well below ours. Explains why they fell so quick." Another scoffs. I just silently laugh to myself. Pathetic, inferior race.

A brassy voice answers matter-of-factly, "They're called humans there. A very strange species, too, they have three things sticking out of their faces. One there...and two there."

There's another voice, with a really airy accent. "Can you imagine the look on their mook faces when they got a good look at our ships? I heard it from the captain, and he gave it to me like this: they ain't got no contact with any other planets, not one. They live on a planet all to their lonesomes and kill each other for sport. Bunch of wild savages. Only language they understand is from a gun."

I hear the brassy voice comment, "They're much taller than us. Prone to going mad under fire. Heard they could tear an Irken's limb off with a single pull. Gonna be hell to work with 'em."

My antennas perk up at that last statement. Work with them? No! I must have heard him wrong. I join in their chatter, letting myself have the next word; a welcome entrance. "Tell me if I heard you right, did you say we were working with those...things?"

They all look around, confused. "Well yeah, Zim, that's why we're here." The soldier rolls his eyes. I stare at him, trying to place a name to his face, but I can't. Why is it so hard to remember who these people are?"

"Yeah, High Command said we're gonna use the planet's troops. So we're going to join them in training." the soldier explains. That's when Groot puts down his cards on the table.

"I'm out." He says. He walks away and I take his chair while they finish up their game. I just growl to myself angrily, and a rather muscular soldier snarls at me. I shrug it off as nothing.

"Well, that's just great." I exacerbate my voice. "I have better things to do than be with those disgusting 'hyuman' things." The word 'human' leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I hear the air voice again. "I agree with shorty over there. I don't need no bunch of half-witted dopes to work with me. If I wanted that, I would have stayed at home in my job making space-ship parts. Best on the planet, by the way."

"You, Rote, I understand, but you, Zim, you hate everything. They can't be THAT bad if they're going to join us in battle." I give the speaker a deadly state, and he returns it. After a moment, he continues,."If they are into this kind of thing, then they must be at least tolerable. I mean, no matter what, we have to work with them. Make peace with it."

"Make peace!" I nearly scream. "Nonsense!" I probably should have not said that so loudly. The big, muscular Irken next to me puts me in a choke-hold with one arm, still managing to hide his cards.

I hear Rote join in, "Good job, Spark, shut the little guy up."

"I just can't wait to get back to destroying things. You think they'll have something to blow up there?" I hear my attacker ask.

"What place doesn't have something to destroy, big guy?" I hear Trent goad. They laugh, knowing all too well how true this is.

"Yeah, so anyway, how long are we staying on this planet?" comes another question. As I struggle against Spark's enormous arms, I listen in disgust to all this hype about a conquered people. I keep trying to pull myself free, in the meantime, but the effort is futile. Eventually I just become limp in his arms encircled around my head.

I hear Rote chime in, "Meh, probably a long time, though not forever, I hope. They're doing a bunch of new tests this time. Me, I'm more concerned about the female species there. I hope I could find one like Susie. Boy, did she look fine. I wonder what they'll look like!" There's an explosion of laughter.

"They'll be hi-" my mouth is covered again by Spark. Curse him and his strength!

"I miss my girlfriend." I hear a bunch of "me too"s. I grunt in annoyance. Who needs a girlfriend? I don't! I don't need anyone! And why won't this Irken let me go!

"Man, this is going to be tough..." a soldier mourns. Weaklings! I would have said that aloud but certain hands prevent me from doing so. There is a bit of turbulence and everyone's antennas shoot up on alert. I frantically move to escape Spark and run to look out the tiny window. The other soldiers are waiting for my reports on what I see. I turn to look at the others.

It's greyish out..." I turn back around to view more. "There seems to be...uh...white stuff...almost everywhere! It's an infestation of filthy white stuff!" I am shoved aside and the other soldiers fight to see out the window. I move to sit on my own. This is horrible and pointless, I know for a fact that these 'human's are worthless.

A female announcer's voice comes over the intercom, "All troops report to the docking bay for assembly. Repeat, all troops report to the docking bay for assembly!" I hear a bunch of groans as they all head for the exits leading to the docking bay. I run down to my bunk and put on my service cap and coat, buttoning them neatly to my overalls. So this is it...


End file.
